


Since We Were Children

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Category: Matchmaker Series - Candace Camp
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, Gen, One Shot, Pre-Relationship, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:43:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dominic and Francesca Fitzalan befriend Sinclair Lilles, the future Duke of Rochford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Since We Were Children

**Author's Note:**

> _we had known each other since we were children, and I was not in awe of him. I knew him for himself, not his title or anything else._
> 
> \-- Francesca, Lady Haughston ( _The Courtship Dance_ )

Terence had always been their parents’ favourite. He was the firstborn, outwardly deferential, without ever concealing his strong sense of what was owed to himself, as Lord Selbrooke’s heir, and the Fitzalans in general. Back then, he was the handsomest, too, with fine-boned features, a great deal of light, almost white, hair, and mist-blue eyes. As far as Lord and Lady Selbrooke were concerned, none of their three younger children would ever compare to Terence. _  
_

However, of those three, Ivy was far and away the most satisfactory. She was the youngest by five years, pretty, sweet, and obedient. That was all their parents wished for in a little girl. She was the perfect daughter as Terence was the perfect heir, the two of them bracketing Dominic and Francesca—of whom  _rag-mannered rascals_ was the best that could be said—on either side.  

Dominic and Francesca were not twins, whatever the assumptions of various strangers and acquaintances. Dominic was almost a year the elder—but they might as well have been the same age, for all the difference those eleven months made. They had been inseparable from the moment that Francesca took her first unsteady steps, among themselves and in the perception of others—the latter assisted by a strong resemblance in person as well as personality.

Where Terence and Ivy were slight, sleek, and delicately pale, Dominic and Francesca were sturdy and vigorous. They had round cheeks and large, dark blue eyes. The fair hair shared by all the Fitzalans burst around their faces in bright, curly manes, often dirt-streaked and always tangled. 

At home, they ran wild together, ruining countless dresses and coats, riding all over Redfields and often beyond it, laughing and shouting and generally making a nuisance of themselves. Though quick at their lessons, they disliked them, too lively to bear long hours of instruction. A succession of nurses, governesses, and tutors had no success at quelling their high spirits, and no door or wall, however thick, seemed able to contain them. Terence (it was said) tried to lead them into better habits, and restrain their worst ones, as an elder brother should; but if so, he had little success.

Of course, Lord and Lady Selbrooke would never have tolerated their behaviour under normal circumstances. They had higher expectations even of a daughter and younger son. As it happened, however, their middle children had acquired a companion in mischief very early, when Dominic fell into the stream that separated Redfields from Dancy Park, one of the many properties of the Duke of Rochford.

Francesca, who couldn’t have been more than four at the time, jumped in after him. Neither had noticed a boy little older than themselves, quietly reading on the Dancy side of the stream, but he could hardly have escaped noticing them. He rushed over to find them climbing up onto the bank, sopping wet.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”

Dominic grinned up at him. “Looking for Nigel. Have you seen him?”

“What’s Nigel?”

“Our bunny,” said Francesca. “What are  _you?_ ”

The boy drew himself up, lifting his chin and looking as haughty as an eight-year-old boy could. “I am Lord Ashlocke.” He paused. “But you still haven’t said who you are.”

“I’m Dominic Fitzalan,” said Dominic. “She’s my sister, Fr—”

“ _Lady_ Francesca _,”_ she said, pushing her hair out of her face and sticking her nose into the air. Then she laughed. “But what’s your real name? Don’t you have one?”

He hesitated, then said rather awkwardly, “Sinclair. Sinclair Lilles. This is my father’s land.”

“Oh!” said Dominic. “So you can help us find Nigel.”

Sinclair glanced from one hopeful, mud-smeared face to the other, and couldn’t help but relent. “All right,” he said, fetching his book and shoving it in his pocket. “Which way did he go?”

And so it was that Sinclair Lilles, Marquess of Ashlocke, heir to the Duke of Rochford, proved himself a worthy playmate. Half a year Terence’s senior, he was steadier than Dominic and Francesca, as much by disposition as age. He was a grave, reserved boy, too much encouraged to dwell on his lessons and his own importance, but sufficiently kind and considerate by temper to keep him from ever being really disagreeable. Quiet and bookish though he was, he did not lack spirit, and before long he led Dominic and Francesca’s adventures as often as he opposed them.

This would have been bad enough. Lady Selbrooke, in particular, could not help but see her children’s friendship with the future duke as a desirable turn of events, however it had come about. Dominic would have a career, someday, and need all the patronage he could get. Francesca, now—if they ever did make a respectable lady out of her, it might be very well indeed if Lord Ashlocke remembered her fondly. 

Lord Selbrooke considered his wife. “Do you suppose—”

“Who can say? He is a boy still, and she may not grow up handsome.” She considered her reflection. Privately, she doubted it; whenever Nurse managed to wrestle Dominic and Francesca into cleanliness, it became apparent that they were growing more like  _her_ by the day. Still, she might not be to his tastes. “Yet at worst, a friendship with him can only throw her into the path of other eligible men. The duke and duchess spend little enough time at Dancy Park, and Ashlocke will be in school so soon, that only constant company is likely to be remembered. Let them frolic here for a few years.”

To hammer the nail in further, the Duchess of Rochford called a few days later, overflowing with good will.

“My son has been returning home with muddy knees and dirt all over his face,” she said, cheerfully enough that Lady Selbrooke’s apology died in her throat. “Rochford and I are so pleased to see Sinclair acting like a little boy, for once—I’m sure you must understand, with two sons of your own.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“And playing with other children, too. Sinclair told us all about your Dominic and Francesca. They sound perfectly delightful—I should be delighted to meet them, if it is not too great an inconvenience?”

Lady Selbrooke’s smile became a little fixed. From most, such an inquiry would be a politely-phrased demand. From the young duchess, it really did sound like a question. Still,  _no_ was hardly an acceptable answer. Lady Selbrooke paused only to consider which of the two would disgrace her least.

“I am afraid Dominic’s masters cannot spare him,” she said, infusing the words with as much regret as she could, “but Francesca, I am sure, will be honoured by your Grace’s interest.” 

She sent for her daughter, and sat in silent dread until Nurse walked Francesca into the salon—the only place which Lady Selbrooke had considered great enough for receiving the Duchess of Rochford. Francesca was all but swallowed up in the grand state room. Thankfully, she had also been scrubbed clean, her gold curls restored to a semblance of order and tied back, her stained skirts exchanged for a white gown, tied around the waist with a blue satin ribbon. Lady Selbrooke breathed a sigh of relief. _  
_

Before she could do anything else—as soon as Nurse had brought Francesca before them—the duchess sprang out of her chair and knelt down. It was all Lady Selbrooke could do to keep herself from staring in horror.

“You must be Lady Francesca!” said the duchess, a smile lighting up her dark, fine-boned face. “Sinclair told me so much about you that I wanted to meet you myself.”

Francesca’s eyes went wide. “Sinclair? Are you his mama?”

“Francesca! This is the Duchess of Rochford,” Lady Selbrooke broke in, all but vibrating with anxiety.

“I am,” said the duchess. “He has enjoyed himself very much with you and your brother.”

Francesca considered this. “He helped find Nigel.”

“He told me that, too,” she said, laughing. “He was quite proud of himself. I hope your rabbit has quite recovered?”

“Yes,” said Francesca, and at a stern look from her mother, added, “ma’am.” Dimples creased her cheeks. “He feels better now.”

“I am very glad to hear it. Sinclair, you know, told us that you and your brother are interesting and determined and not afraid of anything, and that he’s been enjoying himself very much with you.”

Francesca’s grin widened.

“I hope you like him, too.”

Francesca nodded eagerly. “Sinclair s’fun. And smarter than Dom.”

“Francesca!”

Francesca looked sullen. “Dom said!”

“Perhaps,” said the duchess, laying a hand on Francesca’s shoulder, “you and Master Fitzalan would like to visit him at Dancy Park. Sinclair isn’t as lucky as you, Lady Francesca—he has no brothers and sisters.”

Francesca wrinkled her nose. Lady Selbrooke stiffened, but the duchess only laughed.

“Nor any friends. However, we have plenty of amusements for children your age, and I am sure he would be very happy to see someone besides the duke and I, and the servants.”

Francesca looked hopefully at Lady Selbrooke, who could scarcely believe her ears. Though the Fitzalans were of the oldest and most influential families in the county, they had only ever been invited to Dancy Park as one family among many.

“Your Grace,” she said, almost stammering, “of course we would be honoured—”

“Would you like that, Lady Francesca?”

Francesca nodded. “And Dom?”

“Of course.” The duchess rose to her feet, turning to Lady Selbrooke. “We would be honoured to receive you and your children as soon you can spare the time. Perhaps some time next week?”

“I—yes, of course. I expect no callers on Wednesday afternoon, if—”

“Excellent!” The duchess smiled down at Francesca and patted her hair. “Sinclair and I will look forward to seeing all of you then.”

And that was that.


End file.
